


and in my eyes your glory pour

by WahlBuilder



Category: Mars: War Logs, The Technomancer (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Multi, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-11
Updated: 2019-10-11
Packaged: 2020-12-09 06:02:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20990036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WahlBuilder/pseuds/WahlBuilder
Summary: How the second ever Technomantic Triumvirate went.





	and in my eyes your glory pour

The gathering is in the middle point between Noctis and the Valley—although not everyone here knows where either is. It is enough to know for some that the assembled have to honour both hidden dwellings. It is enough that this place is far from countries of origin of the three groups that are already arguing. If one were to look at it from a ledge on the canyon walls towering over the meeting place, one would assume the slowly—but growing ever faster—swirling, twisting groups were turning into a dust devil.

All three are different in appearance: one, the smallest, dressed in sombre grey, keeping together; another a ragtag of shades of sand and rock, with painted faces; the biggest in resplendent blue and gold. Despite the differences, the three groups have many attributes in common: circles of wires crowning their heads, wired gloves covering their hands. And staves, short and long, of different configurations—but in hands of each of them.

The air is cracking, humming with electricity; blue-white arcs jump from staff to staff, making bridges even though the owners of those staves are far from building them on their own.

The conversation is carried in voice, but in a lot of movement also, and growing more and more dangerous, because more and more things are lost in translation, in tone, in accents, in hand-signs and gestures, in the changing pitch of electricity and in configuration of sparks.

The swirling stops abruptly, and the twisting front opens into a line facing a lone figure coming to them. He is kin to the gathering—in the blue of the simple robe, touched by the canyon breeze, and gold of the pauldron and golden claws encasing one hand, in the grey of the bodyglove underneath, like anatomical practice, écorché, and the staff—but the blue is simple and stunning, the pauldron is without a pair, the claws unmatched, the wiring covers him feet to chin. The staff is gleaming white, and with a light atop.

The staff is worth looking at: there is a blade with a slight curve, on the lower part; the upper part is three prongs, between which is suspended an unset crystal, or maybe not even a crystal, but something pulsating. It is called the Heart of Darkness, because in the heart of all darkness, there is light. There must be—or everything is lost.

The Heart of Darkness—to guide. The blade, to protect. He’s not a preacher, not a philosopher, not someone particularly smart or special in other ways. The previous form of the staff was for someone who would only guide—but he is not that. A warrior-cenobite—or, in his case, ‘eremite’ is probably more accurate.

After him, people follow. They are even more colourful than the three kin-ships. They wear the piloting gear of Noctis, the black jackets of the infamous Vory, the dusty grey armour of the Auroran forces, the armwraps and hoods of the Valleian ostrich riders; they carry facial tattoos proudly—marks of various creeds and origins and choices; they carry weapons from all corners of Mars, and tools of their various trades. They are walking in the lone figure’s shadow, protected.

But even closer behind him, not following him, but covering him, are two (and another): one a hound taken human form, powerful as the massive animal walking close by, one-in-two-bodies; the other quite ordinary to the eye, a red scarf the only feature of note.

One from the gathering of three groups (indeed, a gathering of many) steps forward, to bar the warrior-eremite his path, striking a staff on the ancient stones. ‘By whose authority are the non-Technomancers here?’

The one loner, not-theirs, tilts his head to the right shoulder. He has mismatched eyes: one golden, one blue. ‘Mine.’

‘And by what right are you talking here?’

‘The right of non-existence.’

The two behind him know that it means that he is not only beyond the law, but he doesn’t exist. He can be injured, maimed, killed—and no law calls for retribution for such a deed. But without emptiness, there is no existence; squeezed tight, all things will die without motion. He is that emptiness, the in-between. No law will protect him—but no law can stop him. And if the only thing preventing people from harming him is fear of punishment, their morals are cheap. He is open to them—he is a measure of their humanity.

(They don’t know, yet, that he is protected by the two (and another) beside him.)

The one asking knows what it means, and knows what the robes mean, what the staff means—but refuses to believe. To admit the claim would be to admit that they cannot silence him. To silence him would be easy, so they think (they don’t know yet about the two, and another), to silence him would require so little. He cannot exist because he cannot exist. Legends don’t walk the land anymore.

It is not easy to admit responsibility for the now, it is not easy to admit that legends are not the sole provision of the past, and someone is making a legend by keeping a journal. It would be admitting that every action matters, after all.

‘And why are _these_ two among ours?’

‘Because they are mine. Because they are the Conduit also. The First were the Conduit together. And so are we.’

‘They have no right to witness the Triumvirate!’

‘Oh, have they?’ He tilts his head to the right shoulder again. ‘Look at us, squabbling over rights, not even listening to each other. Once siblings, we became cousins. Then, we became strangers. Happy to be locked up in our towers of gleaming brass and to be used as little more than living bombs in exchange for being left alone when we are not killing ourselves in someone’s war—or happily exploiting wars ourselves—as though there is no other way except for these two! As though we are so different that no understanding can be reached. They do have the right to be here: the Triumvirate summons demand we bring our kin—and they are mine. Through my birth and training, I am of the Lairian Source. Through my trine, I am of the streets of Shadowlair, of the vastness of Mars. My kin are the Ophirian Order, now free, and the Clans of Alliance; my kin are the Ophirian Slums and the Upper Ophir; my kin roam Mars under the ever-watchful _Ocio_; my kin live in the hidden Valley. My kin are buried under glaciers of the south pole, my kin are taken apart by moles, my kin are entombed in rock. My kin has black hands and stars for eyes. I am Mars—you cannot deny me. My shadow is large enough to protect them all.

‘There are indeed matters concerning only those who share our abilities—but we are not a different case, species, or whatever else you want to think, were made to think. We have forgotten, my unloved kindred, that we are to help, not to rule. To explore, not to conquer.’

‘As an Auroran, you are all pretty talk, brother.’

‘I am not Auroran. I am Roy. I have no faction. I am no-one’s lord, no-one’s guide, no-one’s dog, no-one’s priest. I am theirs, and theirs alone.’ He gestures at the two flanking him, the two who are his in everything. ‘“Our blood is water on the mouth of Mars, and of it grow the vine and breads, and of it moles are sustained and grow fat and locusts swarm; we throw the Shadow”—isn’t what you taught me, my former mentors?’

Among the blue-gold, one nods to him.

‘We cannot blindly venerate the past—it is a pile of rocks as we now know. We cannot be encumbered by the minute needs of survival—look how many songs we have lost already to that, forgetting what we are. And we cannot rush into the future, pushing aside everyone who can’t keep up. We must come together—the whole of Mars. We cannot allow a handful of fanatics ravage the planet in the name of idea, _any_ idea.’

‘Are you not yourself an idea?’

He smiles. It softens his face, makes him look younger. ‘As much as anyone is an idea.’

There are murmurs in the groups—or shall we say, a crowd now, for they have been mixing together: blue and grey and clan colours and staves of various configurations. Talking, murmuring together, searching for a common language.

The one knows it won’t be immediate, that change takes time—with each person, each word. But he has ever been stubborn.

‘You carry a fancy staff, brother, and wear fancy robes—but I don’t see the final part of the ensemble. Are you truly what you claim to be?’

It is a provocation, and everyone present knows it, can recognise it. He is like a storm: you can run from it, hide from it, but you will hear the sky split. He is Mars; we walk on his palms, his breath fills the sails.

They will learn soon that he is not one easily challenged.

They blink—and his face is white as paint, and as though covered in paint—but they blink again, and there is another layer, and again, and another, and again, and another—until it is a smooth, perfect mask—and yet not a mask. It is his face. They blink—and the white is stained with red like tears and with red on his lips; they blink—and it is blazing gold, difficult to look at, with cracks of blue; they blink—and it is red all over; they blink—it is the magnificent azure with eyes in gold. They blink—it is a serene face with closed eyes; they blink—it is twisted in a war cry; they blink; they blink.

** _Are you satisfied now?_ **

His voice is thunder, his voice is the rumble of a quake, the howl of the wind, the whisper of the sand, ever-shifting; he is more than human; he is less, a sketch in broad strokes, the barest minimum of being. His mask is everyone’s face.

‘Will… you dance the Long Dance, as you should?’ a faint, awed voice carries in the silence.

He runs a hand down his face, as though wiping it—and the mask is just paint now, white and red, blue and gold, red and white, gold and blue. ‘I am a singer; I will do this my way—but I will do it.’

He grips the staff. The Heart of Darkness flares.

He sings.

***

What did you see?

The Wolf-Hound says: ‘A golden stag, rearing up, magnificent, a crown of blue antlers on his head.’

The Bright Lady says: ‘A white bull, calm and powerful, a river falling down his shoulders.’

The Marked Sand-Bird says: ‘A black void with stars being born within.’

The Two-Hearted Brother says: ‘A dragon, his scales blue and body sinuous, his antlers small and straight.’

The Tired King says: ‘A desert god, his skin white, his eyes and hair red, his head unspeakable, white lotus at his feet.’

The Writer-Artist says: ‘A man. Our Roy.’

**Author's Note:**

> ‘What do you think?’ He knows that he’s failed to get nervousness out of his tone—but he hopes that Roy, frown etched onto his face, is too lost in the reading to notice.  
Roy lowers the notebook carefully. ‘This is not precisely how it went.’  
He suspected Roy would say that, and he smiles. ‘It _is_ how it went. Because I wrote it like this. Though I wonder whether it needs a stronger closure.’  
Roy snorts—a thing borrowed from Tenacity ages ago. ‘You think all the people who were there, won’t notice the differences?’  
‘They won’t. It is how it went,’ he repeats.  
Roy watches him for a long time, his eyes warm—with the fondness that never fails to make something flip in Innocence’s chest. ‘The writer is the creator. You’ve made us into a legend.’ Roy’s tone is full of pride.  
Heat rushes to his cheeks. He twirls the pen in his fingers. ‘People need legends,’ he murmurs. Maybe he has accepted that he has powers as a creator—but feels like an impostor, sometimes. Most of the time. ‘They need stories. I’m not writing history, it’s for others to do.’  
There are many things he has omitted. Dandolo’s impassioned speech, the squabble over the presence of the Ophirians (not the Order—the other ones). The long days, weeks of discussions of the new policies and their minute details, the endless push and pull over the polar station, the mutual accusations, old wounds reopened… The ground shaking at the show of Roy’s powers. Doubts, demands, threats. The black mark on Tenacity’s side and fear in his eyes, and Roy’s promise. All of it is only theirs, visceral—Innocence won’t give it to anyone else.  
He has left out more astonishing aspects also, because their grandiosity pales in retelling. It could only be experienced. Roy’s voice amplified by the canyon and Roy’s hands moving in the signage of his Ophirian kindred (the language related to the one used in the Ophirian Slums), while sparks danced over his hands in the electro-signing of the Auroran Technomancers—and the staff stood by his left hand, sunken into the rock blade-first like into stringy flesh of red pineapples, and the Heart of Darkness atop it pulsed, and the pulsation played in the air, on Innocence’s skin, a tapping on his palms—ABin, the only language that all Alliance clansmen know without exception. Innocence has left out the pauses that Roy made for translation into the Noctian sign language and Auslan also, because he had only so many hands. He has left out how this simultaneous use of so many languages taxed Roy, so much that Roy could barely stand when the gathering dissolved, when Roy was not a symbol anymore but a man, and they held him as their man.  
There was a feast after, emphasising the hope, and the spirit of openness. Besides, a lot of the people in the gathering had come from afar, and had to be nourished, and though the Noctians and Valleians had brought riches of foodstuffs, it wasn’t enough. So hunting parties were assembled, people mixing according to their skill and acumen, and cooking parties were assembled also.  
Roy had faded into the background—but people drifted to him nonetheless. For a talk, for a joke, for a blessing.  
He has left out a long string of variously-coloured beads wrapped around Roy’s left forearm, and a thin silver chain wrapped around the right: one a personal gift created by Sean and Alan, the other too complicated to explain.  
He has left out the miracle of water, and the parting of the canyon walls, and more—things that are impossible to be transferred through words. There was the sun moving across the sky and Roy’s shadow growing ever longer—and a faint shimmer in the air covering them all like a giant dome, perceptible only out of the corner of one’s eye. They were safe there, with him, all of them, loved and unloved. He was undiscriminating, like death.  
There are facts—and there is the narrative truth, and the story he’s written is true.  
It feels so fresh, even though it’s been years. They have changed, the three of them and Temperance—and yet they are unchanging. Innocence knows—Roy explained it—that they will live long lives. They are, like Temperance, technically immortal: they are Roy’s, and he won’t let them go. He repairs their bodies in minute ways with each breath—he can’t help it, it’s in his nature; they are his.  
‘I like it very much,’ Tenacity chimes in, leaning to the archway to the room—and then quickly darting back to the kitchen with a few curses and a loud ‘Ranny! No stealing!’  
Roy is still looking at Innocence. The colour-changing band on his throat peeks through the high collar of his shirt.  
‘Let legends be legends,’ Roy says at last. ‘And we will live.’ He bends to Innocence, and Innocence’s heart sings.  
He wraps his arms around Roy, and they kiss, light, then Roy’s lips brush over his cheekbone, warm and a little chapped.  
Let legends be.


End file.
